


Sherlock Holmes and the Society of Sensationalists

by tardisjournal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Or is it?), ASMR, Community: comment_fic, Gen, Hilarity Ensues, Misunderstandings, Porn Video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/pseuds/tardisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never imagined that he'd walk in on Sherlock Holmes watching porn in their living room. Correction, he never imagined that he'd walk in on Sherlock Holmes <i>having just watched porn</i> in their living room, which was pretty much the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes and the Society of Sensationalists

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: S1:01--”Study in Pink”; S1:02--”The Blind Banker”
> 
> Warnings: Contains mentions of porn videos and things you might see therein

Outside, dusk was just falling, but it was far darker inside the upstairs rooms of 221B Baker Street. John figured that Sherlock must have gone out, for Sherlock was definitely the type to leave every single light blazing when he was at home. John had resigned himself to their flat often being lit up like a operating theatre all night long, though he was secretly dreading their next shared electric bill.  
   
John paused at the door and toed off his shoes, then stretched luxuriously, wincing a little as his wounded leg twinged in protest of a long day cooped up in the clinic.   
   
Loath to break the tranquil atmosphere of the flat, he padded toward the kitchen navigating solely by the dim light coming in from the curtained front windows. As he dodged piles of books and the odd box that Sherlock had left in the middle of the floor, his mind was focused on two things: getting a beer from the fridge (assuming, of course, that they hadn't been removed to make room for some disgusting experiment, _again_ ) and his date with Sarah later that evening.    
   
He had promised Sarah it would be nothing like their first date, and he meant to keep that promise. The fact that Sherlock wasn't around was a good thing—there was less chance of being sucked into the black hole of danger and intrigue that always swirled around his friend that way. John was looking forward to having a nice, normal evening, something that had been in very short supply since he'd first become acquainted with Mr Sherlock Holmes. An evening where everything went according to his plans, not those of his flatmate.    
   
John reached the kitchen and flicked on the light switch, his attention still focussed on the evening ahead. He'd already made the dinner reservations, now he just had to...   
   
Out of the corner of his eye, John caught a small movement behind him and froze. The hair went up on the back of his neck and every muscle tensed as his body registered that there was a presence in the living room _mere feet away_ from him, on the sofa, and prepared to fight or flee.  
   
He turned slowly around, realising even as he did so that it was Sherlock, of course. John been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed that the untidy mound of throw blankets and decorative pillows contained a human being as well.    
   
Sherlock would undoubtedly chide him for being so unobservant, if he was in a pedantic mood. John rather hoped he wasn't. He had already endured Sherlock's lecture on the need to be cognisant of everything going on around him all the time, more than once, and he rather resented it. He had survived Afghanistan, after all. He refused to act like he was in a war zone when he was in his own flat.   
   
John stopped when he was facing the supine form of his friend, who had made no sign that he was aware that John was even in the room. Well, good--perhaps John would be spared the speech.   
   
But then John noticed something unusual. It wasn't, as a casual visitor might think, the fact Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa at a time most of the good citizens of London were wrapping up their workday and preparing for the evening ahead. Some days Sherlock never seemed to leave the sofa, and John had grown used to this as well.    
   
It was Sherlock's posture. It was almost... relaxed. No, scratch that. It was completely relaxed, to the point of looking boneless. Sherlock was lying with one arm thrown behind his head and the other dangling casually off the side, his fingertips just brushing the floor. The heels of his bare feet, which were sticking out from the bottoms of his favourite blue-grey pyjama bottoms, were touching, but the feet themselves lying akimbo. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and even.   
   
He was so very still. That might have been the strangest part of all. Sherlock, unless frozen in what John had come to think of as his “thinking postures”, was a whirlwind of pacing, finger-tapping, violin-playing energy, always.   
   
He wasn't even still in his sleep. John had come across Sherlock dozing fitfully on the sofa late at night, or early in the morning, enough times to know that. Most of those times Sherlock was more off the sofa than on it, having tossed and turned so much he'd half-tumbled to the floor.   
   
And since when did Sherlock kip during the day? Never. And yet here he was, apparently doing just that. Perhaps he was ill?    
   
John drifted closer and saw that Sherlock's features, too, were more relaxed than he'd ever seen them. His eyes were closed, the habitual furrows that John associated with deep thought had been smoothed from his forehead, and his lips were parted in a gentle smile.    
   
John's own lips twitched upward at the sight of his friend enjoying some unusual but well-deserved repose, even as he wondered what had occasioned it. Had Sherlock solved a particularly vexing case and was basking in the satisfaction of a job well done?    
   
It was a heartwarming thought, but John didn't think so. "Satisfaction of a job well-done" was something that John had never seen Sherlock enjoy. The completion of a case tended to send Sherlock into a dark and destructive spiral that could last for days until a new case happened along. During these times, he was more likely to sulk on the sofa in a petulant, dressing-gown wrapped heap, or conduct an experiment to see which chemicals would best dissolve the sofa while leaving the floor it was standing on intact, than relax on it.   
   
Suddenly, John remembered Greg Lestrade's insinuations during the “drugs bust” at 221B nearly two months ago, and how Sherlock had neatly side-stepped the DI's question of whether the flat was “clean.” And how when John, gobsmacked by the implication that the man he was already pretty sure was the most brilliant man he had ever met was also a junkie, had turned to question him, Sherlock had affected a wide-eyed innocent look and answered John's question with another question. Like he hadn't understood what John was getting at. Even that early in their acquaintance John had sensed something was off about Sherlock's response. But then they'd got distracted with determining the identity of “Rachel” and John had forgotten all about it.

Well, he was remembering it now.   
   
What if Sherlock _was_ a junkie? It still seemed inconceivable to John. He had lived and worked closely with Sherlock for two months and seen no evidence of any illicit drug use whatsoever. But maybe he was seeing it now? The thought made his stomach lurch. If Sherlock was a junkie, he really didn't want to know.   
   
If Sherlock was a junkie, he _had_ to know. As a doctor, and especially as his friend.   
   
Hating himself a little for being such a nosy parker, John crouched down to examine the items scattered across the coffee table for signs of illicit activity.   
   
There were several issues of “Guns  & Ammo” magazine, none of which looked to be from this year or even this decade by their condition, though John didn't bother to check the dates; an empty tea cup that John recognised as the one he had given Sherlock his tea in that morning (he couldn't help but wonder where the saucer had to got to), Sherlock's mobile; a calligraphy pen that was leaking ink onto the topmost copy of "Guns & Ammo”; a small plastic baggie containing a hank of straw-coloured hair (John sincerely hoped it was animal and not human); and a green glass ashtray perched precariously on the edge of the table that contained an assortment of foreign coins and a handful of gravel.    
   
The usual jumble of odds and ends that always followed in Sherlock's wake, then. There were no needles, vials, glassine envelopes with traces of powder in them, or any joints in sight. There weren't even any cigarette butts.   
   
Well. That was a relief. Wasn't it?   
   
John's laptop sat in the centre of the table, open, and facing Sherlock. On impulse, John turned it towards himself and touched a key. The screen flared to life, illuminating whatever Sherlock had been looking at when he'd dozed off.    
   
John glanced at Sherlock, half-hoping he'd wake up and stop him. Sherlock, however, still seemed dead to the world.

John chided himself for being so silly. It was his laptop after all. He had a right to know what it was being used for.  
   
On the screen was a video frozen on the image of a young blonde woman with her hair in a ponytail and a sweet smile. A large arrow in a circle, the “play” button, obscured much of the image, but John could make out that woman was dressed in powder-blue scrubs with white piping. A nurse.   
   
Oh.   
   
Well, that explained it, didn't it? Sherlock's blissful smile, his relaxed doze—chalk it all up to a certain video featuring a comely young nurse.   
   
John put the laptop back where it had been and backed away from the sofa, suddenly feeling intrusive. The image had hardly been titillating, but Sherlock was such a private person it felt like he'd walked in on something intimate. John found himself rather grateful for the throw blanket that Sherlock had covered his lower half with. He felt like he'd already seen too much. He turned and headed back for the kitchen, mind whirling.   
   
So Sherlock had a nurse fetish. So much for being “married to his work.” Well, no one can work all the time, not even Sherlock Holmes, John reasoned. Besides, John had it on good authority that even married people enjoyed a little porn now and then.   
   
He'd just never imagined that he'd walk in on Sherlock Holmes watching porn in their living room. Correction, he'd never imagined that he'd walk in on Sherlock Holmes _having just watched_ porn in their living room, which was pretty much the same thing.    
   
John made it to the kitchen and reached for the refrigerator door.   
   
“It's not what you think,” came Sherlock's voice from behind him.   
   
John froze. “What?”    
   
“The video. It's not what you think.” Sherlock's baritone rumble, as smooth and smoky as vintage Scotch, conveyed neither reproach nor embarrassment, but then, it rarely revealed anything about what its owner was really feeling. Why would this time be any different?  
   
John took his time getting a bottle of Newkie Brown out of the bottom of the fridge, then straightened.    
   
“It's fine, Sherlock,” he said, surprised to find himself stammering a bit. Because, really, it was fine, he was an easy-going guy, nearly everything was fine with him, and didn't they just have this conversation in Angelo's? Of course, that had been about sexual orientation and not sexual... practises, but surely the same principle applied.   
   
John's affirmation was greeted by silence. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on his back, reading his body language; he could practically _hear_ that busy mind reaching its conclusions. But sometimes, he was learning, Sherlock reached the wrong conclusions when it came to interpersonal relationships. Especially interpersonal relationships involving Sherlock Holmes. As much as he didn't want to have this conversation, John thought he'd better clarify.   
   
John turned around slowly to find that Sherlock in exactly the same position he'd left him in. “Sherlock, you don't have to apologise. I should. I intruded on your privacy, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”   
   
Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. “I wasn't apologising.”    
   
Of course he hadn't been. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was hard to appear sincere when one was being sardonic. And he was being sincere.   
   
“Regardless, I'm sorry,” John repeated.   
   
“What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything I wouldn't have done if the circumstances were reversed.”   
   
Of course not.    
   
“Oh, well, good, as long as that's sorted,” John said. He took a step out of the kitchen, then another. He'd just get changed for his date, and pretend that this whole thing never happened. That's what flatmates did, right? Turned a blind eye to certain things in order to keep the peace? Things like the perpetual ring around the tub that only John seemed to care about, the endless stacks of books, newspapers and periodicals that made navigating the flat a life-and-limb threatening endeavour, the _porn videos._    
   
“Come here, John.”   
   
“What for?”   
   
“I want you to watch this.”   
   
“Sherlock, I don't need to watch it.”   
   
“You said flatmates should know something about each other right? Well, I want you to know about this.”   
   
“That was when we'd only just met. I know plenty about you now. More than enough, really.”   
   
“It will only take a few minutes.”   
   
“Sherlock, I have a date.”   
   
“That's not for another hour and a quarter. Come here.”   
   
John sighed, less concerned with how Sherlock had figured that out (and wasn't it funny how quickly he'd gotten used to his whole life being an open book), than with how Sherlock had obtained such power over him that John found himself moving to the sofa without consciously willing it. Perhaps it had something to do with his voice again, which when in its “commanding” mode rivalled John's old CO for inspiring one to want to do something without questioning it.    
   
Nevertheless, it was a very long walk to the sofa.    
   
Sherlock swivelled himself into a sitting position and slid over. John perched on the edge of the sofa at the opposite end. Sherlock positioned the laptop so that it was equidistant between them, and then turned to John with a raised eyebrow.   
   
“Relax, John, I'm not going to make a pass at you.”   
   
“What? I wasn't thinking...”   
   
“Yes, you were.”   
   
“How...?”   
   
“Your posture. I've seen men in front a firing squad that looked more relaxed. Besides, it is a standard seduction technique, is it not?  Invite the target over, play a little porn to loosen them up, then put a hand on their thigh? I don't blame you for being alarmed. About the only thing I haven't done is ply you with alcohol first.”   
   
Sherlock glanced down the bottle in John's hand and his lips curved into small smile. “Although it appears that you've brought your own.”   
   
John blinked at the man that, until five minutes ago, he'd assumed was asexual and wouldn’t know a seduction technique from a hole in the ground. “You're... familiar with these techniques, then?”    
   
“I've observed them. I did go to uni, remember? Sebastian—remember him from the bank?—Sebastian's roommate fancied himself a bit of an “expert” on seduction after he'd had a few. I believe it was quite a shock to him when his techniques failed to work on me. He'd made certain assumptions based the length of my hair and the cut of my clothes that proved inaccurate.”   
    
“He assumed you were gay?”   
   
“He assumed I was easy,” Sherlock snorted. “Besides, I already told you that this isn't porn. Watch.”   
   
Sherlock leaned forward and pressed the “play” button on the video. In lieu of continuing this rather bizarre conversation, John did.   
   
The first thing that struck John was that the nurse was attractive in a normal, everyday sort of way. Young, pretty, but by no means exceptional. The second was that her uniform was the sort that you'd find in any hospital, nothing like the revealing “naughty nurse” costume he'd seen in fancy dress shoppes. The third was that she was speaking directly to the camera and, most remarkably, she was whispering. So quietly that John had to lean forward to hear her.   
   
John thought about making a crack about the amateurish quality of the video—in addition to the low sound the lighting left a lot to be desired--but decided that would be rude. Sherlock was sharing something with him. The least he could do was not be snarky about it. He'd hold his tongue unless the video started to make him uncomfortable, and then he'd just leave. There were limits to what even the best flatmate should have to endure.  
   
The nurse introduced herself as “Lynn” and welcomed John to the doctor's office. She asked him to take a seat in the waiting room. The camera panned over to a row of chairs nearby, and then moved toward them in such a way that it looked that John himself was walking there. The camera focused on one specific chair, lowered as if John was sitting down, there was a brief shot of the floor, and then back to the nurse's face.    
   
Where it stayed, framing Lynn's face, shoulders, and chest, as she continued to whisper. Except for that brief view of the chairs, it never wavered. Not even when she picked up a clipboard and pen and told John she was going to take a brief medical history for their records.    
   
 _“O...K?”_ John thought, puzzled. A _medical history_? This was not what he had been expecting. At all.  
   
Lynn made quite a show of flipping pages on the clipboard until she found the right one, then noisily clicked the pen open. The sounds seemed quite pronounced in their quiet living room and John realised something else—other than the nurse's voice and the sounds of the objects, there were no other sounds on the video. Certainly not the cheesy music he'd been expecting.   
   
Was this some sort of soft-core porn, then? No, that didn't seem right either. John was no expert on soft-core, having never really seen the point of it, but he thought even soft-core porn would be, well, sexier than this.    
   
The woman asked John a series of questions, starting with his full name, address and date of birth, then enquired as to the reason for his visit today...  
   
 _“Because my flatmate is bonkers?”_  
   
….and patiently scratched down each “answer” on the clipboard.   
   
There more more questions about his medical history, each dutifully recorded with exaggerated scribbling noises, but the topics never veered into the inappropriate. Just the sort of information his own staff gathered about their patients every day.   
   
The nurse set the clipboard down, out of John's line of sight as the camera was still focused on her upper body, and picked up a digital thermometer. She explained how it worked and that she was going to attach it to John's forehead. Her hands came forward, up and out of the shot, and all John saw was a close-up of the underside of her arms as she “took his temperature”.   
   
John was growing more baffled by the moment. If this video was for nurse fetishists, or people with medical kinks, it had to be the tamest one on the planet.     
   
He didn't get it.   
   
But Sherlock... Sherlock clearly did.   
   
As the nurse announced that John's temperature was “ 37 degrees Celsius--perfectly normal," John hazarded a glance at Sherlock, half-expecting to find Sherlock staring at him and sniggering at how gullible John was. Instead,  Sherlock was sitting with his hands resting on his thighs and his eyes closed. His head was tilted back a bit and the relaxed smile had returned to his face.   
   
John shook his head in amazement and turned his attention back to the screen. He watched the nurse demonstrate how a blood pressure cuff worked, laboriously inflating it with series of loud _wooshes_. She promised it wouldn't hurt when she put it on him.   
   
John watched, dumfounded, as she told him to hold out his arm (which he steadfastly refused to do), then came even closer so that only part of her face and shoulders were visible. She held her arms out and made like she was putting the cuff on him, inflating it again, then counting off as it deflated.    
   
“Normal again! Very good”, she whispered.  There came the sharp _scritch_ of Velcro being undone, and a _thunk_ as the blood pressure cuff was returned to a surface out of sight.   
   
John heard Sherlock exhale deeply. A quick sidelong glance revealed that Sherlock's head had fallen further backwards. The look on his face now was rapturous.   
   
On the video, the nurse announced cheerfully (but quietly) that they were “all finished”, and that the doctor would be just a moment. She offered him a glass of water while he was waiting. She produced a pitcher and a glass, and slowly poured water from the former into the latter, and offered it to John with a smile. Then the video ended.   
   
John continued to stare at the screen, wondering what the hell he'd just seen.   
   
Beside him, Sherlock stirred and sat up straight.    
   
“How do you feel?” Sherlock enquired.   
   
“About what?”    
   
“What you just saw. How did it make you feel?”   
   
“Confused?”   
   
“I mean physically.”   
   
“Physically? You mean... like... physically, physically?”   
   
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Sherlock arched a brow at him. John raced ahead before Sherlock could launch into his lecture about imprecision in speech and how it was one of his pet peeves. He'd heard that one too many times as well.   
   
“I don't understand. Sherlock. What did I just watch? Was that for a case?”   
   
“No.”   
   
“She's... not a client, then?”   
   
“No.”   
   
“Well, who is she?”   
   
“No idea other than she goes by the screename of  'welshwhispers'; that she grew up in South Wales but one of her parents is American, that's obvious from her accent; she's not a natural blonde; she owns a ginger tabby and that she has posted four similar videos on YouTube. Could we get back to my question now?”  
   
John felt more confused than ever. If the video wasn't porn, then why was Sherlock so insistent about knowing what his reaction to it was? John sighed, knowing there was no dissuading Sherlock when he got into “interrogator “ mode, and the way Sherlock's gaze was fixed on him indicated he was in just that. He glanced down at the smiling nurse frozen once again on the screen of his laptop and shrugged.  
   
“Not much. I mean, she's attractive, but not really my type. Maybe if she took off that blouse or did something a little more, you know, sexy? I mean, if I got off on nurses just talking to patients I'd be useless at work, wouldn't I?”  
   
John attempted a weak chuckle. He couldn't believe he was having a conversation about what turned him on with _Sherlock Holmes,_ of all people.   
   
“So you felt nothing. No tingling of the scalp?”  
   
“Tingling of the _scalp_? Sherlock, the head is not the part of the body that is supposed to be tingling when you watch women on videos.”   
   
“So that's a 'no', I take it. Did you feel any sensations running down your spine—anything akin to warm water, or chills? How about goosebumps in your extremities?”   
   
“No, and no. Definitely... no.”     
   
“Interesting. And very helpful. Thank you, John.”   
   
“You're welcome. Wait. How was that helpful?”   
   
“You've just served as a control sample for my research into which videos are most effective in producing an ASMR. Of course, all experiences are subjective, but having someone who doesn't respond at all is very illuminating.”  
   
“An... ASMR?” John repeated back. He seemed to be doing that a lot.   
   
“An 'Autonomic Sensory Meridian Response', or 'ASMR' for short. It's also been referred to as 'The Unnamed Feeling' or an 'Attention-Induced Head Orgasm'. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's a relatively new phenomenon, though by 'new' I mean recently documented, not experienced. Some people, myself included, describe occurrences going back to childhood, and there's no reason to suggest it's unique to this generation. What is different is now vast numbers of people are able to compare notes, thanks to the Internet, and realise that what they thought of as a unique quirk is shared by quite a few.”   
   
“Yes, but _what is it?_ ”   
   
“A sensory experience consisting of a pleasant tingling of the head and scalp, and sometimes other extremities, that's triggered by an auditory stimulus like hearing whispering or brushing, or by a visual stimulus, such as watching someone engage in painting or brushing.”   
   
“Really. And you. Have this?”   
   
“Yes, though I tend more to the auditory end of the spectrum—painting doesn't really do it for me, and washing someone brush hair is just boring.  Persistent pen-scratching, however, like we heard throughout this video, is a personal favourite of mine.” Sherlock nodded at the computer.   
   
“And an ASMR feels like... what exactly?”   
   
“Well, everyone's a bit different, obviously. But for me, it starts out as tingling across the crown of my head. If the sounds persist, the tingling moves down the back of my head and neck, shoots across my shoulders, and then down my spine. It's quite—delicious, actually.” Sherlock smiled.   
   
“I see,” John said, returning the smile. He wasn't sure he saw at all, but he had to say something to this rather amazing revelation.   
   
“How did you... find out? That you had this.”   
   
John wasn't entirely sure Sherlock would answer. This was the most personal information he'd ever gotten out of Sherlock, the man whose idea of a flatmate interview consisted of telling him that he played the violin and didn't talk for days at at time, and who had deflected John's admittedly clumsy attempts to find out his sexual orientation by saying that he was married to his work. Sherlock never mentioned his past unless it had to do with a past investigation. If it wasn't for Sherlock and Mycroft's oblique, bickering references to their childhood, John might have assumed that Sherlock had sprung fully-grown from the head of his mother.   
   
Sherlock, however, was quite forthright in his response.   
   
“When I was thirteen, a teacher who I quite despised leaned over my shoulder and started whispering, out of deference to the rest of the class no doubt, that the essay I was writing was extremely off-topic. I was about to tell her that she was an idiot when suddenly I was distracted by a strange tingling in my scalp. The more she whispered, the more it increased. It travelled down my shoulders and arms, even into my calves. I was stunned by how good it felt—so much so that I didn't say a word. Then I was mortified because I had a vague idea of what an orgasm was and I thought that might have been what had happened. I thought it meant that I fancied her.”   
   
The horror in Sherlock voice was unmistakable.   
   
John tried not to laugh. “That sounds very confusing.”   
   
“It was!”   
   
“But it wasn't an orgasm.” John was still trying to wrap his mind about this phenomenon. “And yet you said they call it that? A Head Orgasm?”   
   
“They do, but that's more due to the intensity of the experience, than the fact that there's anything sexual about it. It's sort of the opposite, really. An orgasm is a lot energy concentrated in one area that builds and builds until it's released. It makes a person frantic. This is... more diffuse. It makes a person very relaxed, and yet heightens their awareness at the same time. It's more like going into a light trance.”  
  
John was not going to ask about how, or when, Sherlock acquired his knowledge of what an orgasm felt like. Now how, no way.   
   
“So that happened when you were thirteen. When did you find out what was really going on?"  
   
“A few years ago. I stumbled across a post in a newsgroup describing the experience, and was astounded that I wasn't the only one who had had them. As were quite a few other posters. They provided links to other discussions and groups. One of the most active in the early days was a Yahoo! group by the name of “The Society of Sensationalists”. I met quite a few like-minded individuals there. We still keep in touch now and again.”  
   
“The Society of Sensationalists? You're making that up.”  
   
Sherlock laughed. “I'm not! It does sound very Victorian, though, doesn't it? Now there are dedicated Facebook pages, YouTube channels where people post homemade videos designed to trigger the response, and even some mainstream media outlets have caught wind of this 'trend'".  
   
“And you're doing research into this... phenomenon?"  
   
“I'm _continuing_ to do research into this phenomenon. I've already posted a few essays on the topic at relevant websites. Now I'm working on something more comprehensive for my blog, taking into account the experiences of the people I've corresponded with over the years. It's mostly anecdotal, of course, but if there's enough interest we're hoping a university or medical centre will fund a study into it. There could be health benefits to engaging in this phenomenon similar to those found in meditation.”   
   
“So this is a... hobby of yours.”   
   
Sherlock tiled his head and smiled at John. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. Might I depend on your assistance going forward? New types of video designed to provoke the response are being created all the time and I'd be interested in seeing your response to them.”  
   
“Ah. Sure.” What were friends for, after all? He suspected that they wouldn't do a damn thing for him, but it wouldn't hurt him to watch a few. He'd done far more insane things in the name of helping Sherlock Holmes.    
   
“Splendid! Thank you, John.”   
   
Sherlock reached out and tapped the computer screen to start the video over again. Then he leaned back against the sofa, folded his arms behind his head, stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes.   
   
John realised that he'd been dismissed.

  
   
“Goodnight, John. Sarah awaits.”

Whoops. John hadn't moved fast enough. Just because he'd found out that Sherlock Holmes was conducting research into something that had _nothing to do with his work_ , and had been talking about _orgasms_ , was really no reason to be sitting there staring.   
   
“Right. Sarah! I'll just go then.”   
   
John rose and hurried out of the room. Sherlock was right, of course. It was time to focus on Sarah.   
   
John took a quick shower, wrapped himself in a towel, then stood in front of the mirror. He smoothed his hand over his chin, trying to decide if he could get by without shaving. Affirmative. He went to get dressed.

As he pulled on his newest jeans and a crisp checked shirt, he wondered if Sarah had ever heard of this ASMR phenomenon. It certainly hadn't come up in his practice, but then as an army doctor his patients' complaints had been more of the do-something-immediately-or-I’m-going-to-die variety. However, they got all types in at the clinic; patients from all walks of life with complaints from the mundane to the extraordinary--perhaps one of them had mentioned something about mysterious head tingles.  
   
If so, Sherlock would probably like having someone local to interview for his research. John could set up a meeting...  
   
John realised what he was doing, and couldn't help but chuckle at himself.  Having a Sherlock-free date just might be harder than he thought.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at [comment_fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com): "Sherlock (BBC) - Sherlock & John (preferably non-slashy) - John walks in on Sherlock having an [ASMR](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/autonomous-sensory-meridian-response-asmr) moment."
> 
> Yes, ASMR is a real phenomenon! More information about it can be found here: [ASMR overview](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autonomous_sensory_meridian_response).
> 
> 'Welshwhispers' and her video are made-up; however, there are 684,000 (!) "whispering videos" on YouTube here: [Shhh!](http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Whispering+Videos) They are often tagged by the stimulus featured within for easier searching. For example, Sherlock's beloved pen-clicking videos would be here: [Click me!](http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Whispering%20Videos%20pen%20clicking&sm=3)
> 
> Special thanks to intrepid investigatrix [Holmes_Brothers_Trollop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Holmes_Brothers_Trollop) for the beta!


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